The drive home from the Bagot Aboriginal hospital ward after my night shift was dark, and the winds were wild. Matron had let us leave a bit early—there was a cyclone coming (again… we’d had one a few weeks earlier) and all the electricity was off… again. I had just finished school, and this was my holiday job to save the pennies for my inevitable success as a high school graduate, waiting for the southern universities to offer me my future.
Keeping the car on the road was a bit of a wrestle, but having grown up in the tropics, I didn’t give it much thought. I got home to Jingili, where my mother had taped the windows and was hunkered down with the transistor, listening for updates.
“Go to bed, Mum—it’s Christmas Eve.”
My sister, a student nurse at Darwin Hospital, was home for Christmas, but my brothers were both down south, so it was just the three of us.
At around 2 am, I was woken by intense pressure on my ears. All the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room. Perhaps now we needed to act. To pull the door open required both my sister and me—it took both of us to force it open—and when we did, the windows shattered. We went into Mum’s room—again the windows shattered as we opened her door.
Being seasoned cyclone survivors, we went into the bathroom to wait. Mum was preparing to meet her maker with prayers and hymn singing. Me—confident, and somewhat arrogant—poo-pooed all this as a mother’s complete overreaction and inclination towards drama. With the invincibility of an 18-year-old, I was completely oblivious to any real danger to me and my loved ones. Lightning streaked across the blackened skies as we saw fridges and sheets of iron ripping through the air.
The thought occurred to me, “Wow, our street is really hit bad… I reckon the TV news will be around tomorrow and I’ll probably be on it.” Rather than preparing to meet my maker, I was trying to get my family to tell me what they’d gotten me for Christmas—maybe the storm would blow the presents away, so I absolutely must be told! I was also worrying about the animals—our faithful mutt Pluto, and the school chicken and guinea pigs.
The roar of debris flying through the air and the howling winds suddenly stopped. We knew we were in the eye, so a decision was made to move downstairs—check on the animals and wait for morning. We huddled with the dog (we couldn’t find the others at the time, though we did later, and they had survived being flung around the backyard) and piled behind mattresses in case more shattered glass flew in. It seemed like a long night.
Daylight revealed that our neighbourhood was indeed devastated—it was quite a bit later that we knew it was the whole city. I had received a cut on the foot from flying glass, and the wound was quite a gusher. The first day was spent wandering around—checking on people, trying to find important items (Christmas presents and animals), and drying things in the constant rain.
My sister declared I should go to the hospital to get my wound dressed. Driving there was challenging, with trees and debris blocking the roads. On arrival, we were confronted with a hospital trying its best under very challenging circumstances. The old hospital had still been mainly louvered, and the rain had poured through—I remember the floor being wet with blood as small amounts from those of us with wounds mingled with the rain.
It quickly became apparent that my injury was very minor compared to the crisis before us, so my sister got some bandages, someone stitched me up, and we left.
That week was tough—water and power were off, and communication was very difficult. And it kept raining. I was advised that my wound could become troublesome in these conditions and that I should evacuate. Arriving at the Berrimah Primary School to see massive throngs of people—so many mothers and children—all desperate to get out, I made the decision to hold off on my evacuation.
Then I spied someone I knew a little. She was alone with two very small children and had had a completely traumatic Christmas Eve. Her husband was an air traffic controller that night, and she was alone with the two infants when her house blew away, forcing her to crawl under a car, praying it wouldn’t blow away too. Her husband was considered “essential services” and couldn’t leave, so she was trying to get out. I made the decision to accompany her and assured her I’d go with her—she was headed to Melbourne, so I said that was where I was going too.
The long wait eventually led to us boarding an RAAF Hercules headed for Sydney. I don’t know how long that flight was—but it felt like an eternity. It was so crammed with people—distressed children and mothers—and enough time had passed after the cyclone for some to be experiencing stomach upsets. The trek to the “bathroom” was very regular for some and certainly not your usual aeroplane bathroom.
Being a nimble 18-year-old, it was easier to climb behind and above the heads of passengers on the webbing. The throbbing of the engines and the lack of air compression made the flight horrendous, and we were flying very low and VERY slowly. I think my traumatic memories are more about that flight than the actual cyclone.
We eventually arrived in Sydney, where the shock of bright lights and intact, functioning buildings was overwhelming. It all seemed so glassy and shiny, which hurt my eyes. The four of us (my friend and her two kids) were bundled immediately onto a TAA flight to Melbourne. Here the contrast was stark—an almost empty plane, almost more staff than passengers, and being blasted with kindness… and curiosity.
We arrived in Melbourne to long trestle tables of clothes from charities, from which we could help ourselves, and cash handed out from the government—no questions asked. I said goodbye to my friend and was ushered into a taxi. All expenses paid.
Melbourne was an unknown place—it was the middle of the night, so I handed an address to the taxi driver. We were supposed to be going to Kangaroo Ground—a direct road east from the airport. I remember him driving me through the city—showing me the Russell Street police station and the Skipping Girl sign in Richmond. We eventually got to our destination but couldn’t rouse anyone.
This was before mobile phones, and no one knew I was coming—besides, not even my mum knew where I was, as I had said Melbourne on the spur of the moment, and she had assumed I’d head for Queensland where most of my extended family lived. My alternative was to take me to an uncle in Ringwood East—he even offered to take me to his own house! But I declined that offer. When I was apologetic, he responded that he was happy to drive me around all night if necessary. His previous Tracy client drive had been to Warrnambool (3.5 hours away), and the woman and kids he drove had cried and complained the whole way.
I did eventually surprise my uncle around 4 in the morning. And thus, my Tracy story ends, and now, 50 years later, I remain in Melbourne as my husband (whom I met two weeks later) says, “Sometimes an ill wind does blow some good.” At least for me.